


to allow us all to breathe

by shootsharpest



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Keith is stranded, Lance tries to help, M/M, Magic, Mer!Lance, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, human!keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootsharpest/pseuds/shootsharpest
Summary: There’s a soft, musical sort of laugh. “Since when have humans been so kind to merfolk?”“I don’t know what that is.” He really doesn’t. The last of the netting around the creature’s tail falls away into the shallow water. The tail swishes, rippling waves against his legs.The creature fixes him with a strange look. “Surely you must have seen one of my kind before?”(keith has no idea who he is or where his home is. lance is the mer who saved him.)





	to allow us all to breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madnessandbrilliance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessandbrilliance/gifts).



> Hello! Currently, I've been working a lot on multiple projects, with little to show for it posting-wise, so I'm hoping working on this AU will help me get back in the groove. I'm not entirely sure when I'll be able to have the next update out, since I'm in school and have two part time jobs lmao but I'll try to get a schedule of sorts worked out.
> 
> Some things to note: this story takes place on an alternate version of Earth; there's no space hijinks to be had, but there will be quite a few magical elements. Keith will not refer to himself as Keith until he knows his name, so for now I tried to keep it as easy to keep track of the two of them as possible! By the end of the chapter that will be somewhat resolved. :)
> 
> (title comes from the song of the same name, by saltland. i'll post a spotify playlist in a later chapter!)

Blue. Blue as far as his eyes can see, wavering as light filters in streaks from below. Below or above? He isn’t sure. He isn’t sure of much at all. All he knows in this moment is to keep his mouth shut, as he flails in any direction, discombobulated and terrified that this is how he will die.

The air in his lungs burns, stale, and his vision blurs black around the edges. With one last kick, he pushes himself through the abyss of water, fruitlessly. His eyes flutter shut, and a stream of bubbles escapes his lips. He’s almost too far gone to even register them, although a small, desperate part of his mind urges him to follow the bubbles _upward_ , but he’s so _tired._ The water isn’t so cold now, and the burn isn’t so intense. He wonders what will happen next, what the darkness will bring.

The darkness brings a voice.

“--there. Hello?”

Where is he going?

“ _Hello?_ ”

There it is again. Are they waiting for him? Do they know who he is?

Something brushes his arm. Something warmer than the water, soft, _moving._ He jolts beneath the touch, wrenching his eyes open to the slight sting of the water again--he can only barely see, though, but there’s something here. No, some _one._ A vision of brown skin and flowing hair and blue scales.

“You don’t belong here.” It’s not a question.

_Scales,_ he thinks again. _That isn’t normal._

(He has no idea if that’s true, but it certainly doesn’t _feel_ normal, and that’s all he has to go on right now.)

“Can you swim? Yes or no?” The creature speaks again, and how can one bear to open their mouth beneath the water, not to conserve precious air? He’s dazed; these thoughts take all of his concentration, and so he does not answer. All he can do is stare, surprised eyes giving way to half-lidded, exhaustion, and his hands come to clutch at smooth, warm arms. _Please,_ he thinks, hopes somehow that his plea will be known. _Please please please._

The creature’s mouth presses into a line. Another rush of bubbles float past his face. That must have been the last of it, he’s sure of it. This is how he will die.

Fingers cradle his face. He does not understand. The face moves closer, hesitant. He does not understand. After what feels like an eternity of staring into glimmering eyes, the creature closes the rest of the space between them and presses against his lips, still and warm and careful. He understands nothing.

And then there’s another burning, on his neck this time. No, not burning--tingling. It doesn’t hurt, but it makes his skin crawl. The fingers cupping his cheeks smooth down his neck, highlighting the sensation in his mind. When the creature pulls back, his lips are still parted, ever so slightly, and he instinctively snaps his mouth back shut.

“Breathe, human,” the voice commands gently. He shakes his head fervently. He _can’t._

A webbed hand grasps at his, pulls it to his throat again. To his surprise and confusion, he feels three unfamiliar… _things,_ for lack of any word, on his skin, in the same place as the creature’s own gills.

He breathes in, after a moment of consideration. It doesn’t burn this time, and he greedily gulps down lungful after straining lungful. He’s worn out still, and it’s all too much. The concerned face of the creature--his savior?--is the last thing he sees before exhaustion takes him.

༺༜༻

He wonders if he always hated sand. If not, he definitely does now. He can feel it, gritty and hot beneath his skin, between his fingers, in his mouth. Disgusting. He’d almost rather be drowning than drying out on the sand--

Jerking up from his position lying on the sand, his head pounds in the sunlight. Drowing. He was drowning, wasn’t he? That felt too realistic to be a dream, despite the strange ending. Whatever the hell that had been must have been a hallucination. That’s right.

His lips are tingling. He’s probably just thirsty. That’s right.

Standing, he brushes his body off, shaking as much sand as he can from his dry clothes. He was probably out for a while, if he had enough time to dry from the ocean, he thinks. The waves that carried him here have receded, low tide. He remembers that word. He remembers…

There’s something, just beyond his reach in his mind, unsure where he learned high and low tides. Although he’s sure he knows many things, he isn’t sure how. That’s not right.

Almost as an afterthought, his fingers brush over his neck. Smooth. Why wouldn’t they be? He was dreaming, hallucinating without air to fill his lungs. _Snap out of it, you don’t have time to waste._

He takes stock of his surroundings. He’s on a pale, sandy beach, dotted with shells and small creatures and debris from some sort of shipwreck--thinking about that too hard makes his head hurt, so he doesn’t--and a line of proud trees lines the shore. Further inland, he can see a lush, dense jungle. Surely there must be food, or water, or somewhere he can take shelter, because he knows he needs them.

Focus shifts to himself; his fingers brush long, black bangs from his face, and hair trails all the way to his shoulders, sandy. He grimaces at that. Around his neck hangs a cord, with a round and heavy golden circle at the end. His shirt is gray, untucked, stiff from the saltwater. His trousers haven’t fared much better, and his boots seem worn, but loved. Tucked into one boot is a small knife, stored in its scabbard, miraculously still here after all of the flailing he did in the ocean.

He decides to inspect the gold at the end of the cord. It’s round, cool in his hand, with two protrusions on either side. One of them unhinges the top of the object when he pulls at it, and he finds himself staring at a circle with the letters N, E, S, W in four directions, and a red-tipped needle pointing somewhere between the S and the W. When he rotates the object, curious, the needle does not move. He isn’t sure, but he doubts this is what was meant to happen. Just as he is about to close the lid again, his finger brushes over the top again, and a hidden layer separates. Inside, something flat, small, and folded flutters out, and he catches it midair. It’s dry, somehow, in the presumably watertight object.

Curious fingers unfold the scrap. There’s no color, but he doesn’t need it to make out the face inside. The jaw is squared, covered in stubble, and a small scar splits one of the eyebrows. The hair looks straight and dark like his own. Is this him? His jaw feels smooth, and there’s no eyebrow scar. So, probably not him, but someone who might know who he is. He reverently tucks the scrap back into the lid and snaps the object shut, smoothing his thumb over the top before dropping it back to its hanging position around his neck. He can ponder over that later.

For now, though, he has work to do.

༺༜༻

By the time night falls, he’s built himself a little fire pit, a small blaze keeping him warm from the chill in the air. He can add firestarting to the list of “skills he isn’t quite sure why he has and should perhaps be vaguely unsettled by,” along with, apparently, de-scaling fish with his knife. Fish he’d caught himself in the shallows, using some netting from the shipwreck. He’s left the net in the water, though, to use next time he needs a meal.

Which begs the question: how long is he going to be here? He doesn’t think he has much experience making boats or anything equally useful for getting off this island. Pondering this over his still-hot fish, he decides that is a problem for tomorrow-whatever-his-name-is. So, he stretches out on the cooling sand, gazes at the stars above, and thinks back to how he got here.

He remembers loud, crashing thunder, rain pelting his face painfully as he gripped at the side of a ship; he remembers blinding lightning and the hard _smack_ as he hit the waves; he remembers struggling, disoriented and terrified; he remembers warm hands and a calming voice and soft lips. Does he really _remember_ it, though? He doesn’t remember hearing tell of any creature like this truly existing. Then again, he’s not sure _what_ he knows.

Whoever he is, though, he’s very good at distractions. Tonight, he decides he will wade into the ocean, to try to remove the rest of the sand from his hair and body. The water is cool as he steps into it, shimmering under the moonlight. He follows the gentle slope of the sand beneath his feet, calf-deep, knee-deep, stopping once it hits his waist. Kneeling so he can lean his head back into the water, he runs his fingers through smooth black hair, gently untangling the few knots he finds. After a few moments of this, he dunks himself completely underwater. The chill is shocking enough that it takes him some time to notice a not-entirely-unfamiliar, yet unnatural tingling sensation.

His hands instinctively reach for his throat again. One, two, three emerging folds of skin.

_No way,_ he thinks to himself, running his fingers over them. _That wasn’t a dream._

Remembering the creature’s advice, he takes a tentative breath beneath the waves. And then another, and another. It could be the suggestion of some sort of magic, but he feels as if his vision has sharpened. Experimenting, he stands up, water half-way up his body, but the gills go nowhere. He takes steps backward, until the waves can only reach a few inches away from his toes, and only then does he tingle again, shivers down his spine, though not from the chill in the air. His fingers confirm smooth skin on his neck once more.

He’s intrigued, but perturbed. Shaking sand out of his clothes, he re-dresses. As he is pulling on his second boot, he hears the splash. Just off the rocks past his makeshift camp, water droplets flinging over the rocks and sizzling in his fire. There’s no way he’ll have time to get the materials needed light another fire before the sun is down. He doesn’t forget to grab his knife on the way over, crouched so as not to make a sound.

A steadying breath. A firm grip on the handle of his blade. And then--

He catapults himself over the rocks with one hand, pushing the loudest shout he can muster from his chest and making himself as big as possible. There’s another, loud splash that almost covers up the shriek in response.

It’s the creature, caught in his fishing net.

“You,” he breathes, shoulders slumping in incredulity, because he can’t exactly deny the vision he’d waved off when the creature is sitting right here in front of him. Or, rather, lying hopelessly tangled in his fishing net. Without a moment’s hesitation, though, he’s down on his knees, hacking the poor net beyond usability in order to free the creature.

“What are you doing?” The voice is melodic, lilting, the same as when he was rescued beneath the water.

“A life for a life,” he murmurs with a voice cracking from disuse, careful not to scrape against the creature’s tail; he can finally see in all its splendor, all shades of blue scales, glinting in the moonlight and giving way to freckled brown skin at the midriff. Aside from some jewelry, the creature seems otherwise unadorned and unarmed.

There’s a soft, musical sort of laugh. “Since when have humans been so kind to merfolk?”

“I don’t know what that is.” He really doesn’t. The last of the netting around the creature’s tail falls away into the shallow water. The tail swishes, rippling waves against his legs.

The creature fixes him with a strange look. “Surely you _must_ have seen one of my kind before?”

“I _told_ you, I don’t know what you are. Sorry.”

“First of all, I’m a mer, like I said. But I’m not really a _what,_ I’m a _who._ You can call me Lance.” The mer stretches his tail out. “And… you are?”

“I don’t know that, either,” he admits, quieter. “I don’t remember much before you saved me. How did you do that?”

Lance waves a hand dismissively. “It’s complicated. Magic, and all that.”

(Which of course leaves his head spinning. Did he know magic existed, before? He isn’t sure.)

“Well, in any case. Thanks for not letting me drown?”

Lance grins at him, and he takes note of the slight sharpness of his teeth. “Not a problem, Red!”

“‘Red?’”

“Well, _yeah,_ ” Lance says, as if it should be obvious, lying against the sand with his head cushioned on folded arms. “‘Cause your skin’s kinda red. And you said you didn’t know your name, so… ‘Red.’ Sounds kinda badass, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “But I don’t really have any other ideas, so. Sure, whatever.” With that, he picks up his knife and re-covers it, moving to scaling the rocks to return to his campsite. “Thanks again, see you ‘round.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“Uh. I don’t know, to sleep? Shouldn’t you be going home or something?”

He shouldn’t have turned around, because the look on Lance’s face is enough to stop him in his tracks.

“I can’t,” Lance says, breaking eye contact. “Not until you get home. You and me, man? We’re _bonded_ now. I can’t just leave you here without taking back what I gave you, and if I do, you might die.”

“What you gave me--? The gill things?” A nod. “You can have those back and be on your way,” he scoffs.

“Wish it were that simple, Red. I told you, I’m not leaving you here stranded. I bet you don’t even have a plan to get off this island, do you?”

“I--” he starts, but he doesn’t, really, and he doesn’t see a reason to lie about this. “No. No, I have no clue where I’d even go, if I could.”

“Great! Well, not _great,_ ‘cause it sucks that you’re stuck here and all, but I can help! I know, like, everything about the ocean. Go on, quiz me!”

He finds that he can’t really say no to Lance’s eager little look, so he caves with a sigh. “Fine. Do you know what this is? Does it have to do with the ocean?” Pulling the object and its cord from his neck, he crosses the shore again to hand it to the mer.

Lance takes it gingerly into his webbed fingers, turns it around. “It looks like some sort of gold clam,” he appraises, nodding surely.

“It’s not a clam, look,” Red opens it to reveal the inside, the unmoving needle still stuck between S and W.

“Oh, these! I’ve seen these… fall from ships, sometimes. Or on the seafloor. I don’t know what they’re called, but I think they’re for navigating.”

Red nods slowly, tongue in his cheek as he opens the compartment at the top again, taking the scrap into careful fingers. “This is the only other clue I’ve got right now. I don’t recognize him, but he must be important.”

Lance stares at the photo for a long moment, and then at Red’s face. “He has your nose. Or, you have his. You look like him. Wait, Red, that means you must have a family out there!”

He thinks about this for a moment. He doesn’t have any of his memories. He doesn’t know who they are, or who he is. Would they really want him, if he isn’t himself? He must look troubled, though, because Lance is reaching up and grabbing at the hand around his knife. “Hey, man, let’s not make the angry quiet face while you’re holding the knife still, ‘kay? Don’t need one of us to be shark bait or anything.”

It’s stupid. It’s such a dumb joke. But it’s enough to make him laugh a little, and relax. The hand over his helps. It’s hard to explain, but there’s some kind of calming energy that rolls off of Lance in waves, strongest where their skin meets. Maybe that’s more magic. He makes a note to ask about that later, but for now he settles in to sit down before Lance, fire all but forgotten.

“Red?”

“Hm?”

“What does this say? In the clam.” Lance hands the object back, finger tracing over a series of scratches within the hidden compartment. On closer inspection, they aren’t scratches, but a small engraving.

“‘Kogane,’” he reads, and he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. He repeats it, voice strained.

“It’s not much,” Lance smiles encouragingly. “But it’s a start.”

_chapter one: end._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @shootsharpest for more Klance content. I also have the art for this fic posted there, so PLEASE do not repost! You can retweet it directly, or please ask me permission to crosspost with credit beforehand!


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